


Tacet

by rukafais



Series: an endless song [5]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, cameo by the nightmare king at the end i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 14:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16894428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: meaning: silent; do not playHe rarely remembers his dreams; they are scattered, disconnected things. Memories of a life left far behind and winding paths lit by the scarlet flame that he has grown familiar with. Past performances, old music, the ruins of kingdoms drenched by rain or lit by guttering lamplight. Conversations that blur in his mind.This one is different.





	Tacet

At first, he doesn’t quite realise he’s fallen asleep. The tents of the Troupe change little even in dreams; that same, familiar red, that comfortable warmth, is always present.

He’s content to stay where he is, mostly; these things have happened before. Sometimes it is simply a transition from one dream to another. Occasionally, it gives him glimpses of scarlet flame or a long-stretching shadow or other, stranger things he doesn’t understand; the winding paths that the Troupe walk distort time and distance, and so he sees - the future, or the past, or perhaps things that did not come to be.

But none of them require him to act, only to watch, and this dream is not so passive.

No fire calls for him, no god asks for his presence (that ever-burning heart, that scorching flame, does not speak), but still he feels something. Some wordless call, some subtly-burning feeling (a longing that’s not entirely his own) wanting him to follow.

He doesn’t question it; he only accepts it. Dreams are like that, sometimes.

So, eventually, he rises, looking for its source.

(It’s familiar, in a way he can’t explain but knows intimately. A presence like and unlike the god who had called him once, the first night after his induction into the Troupe.

He tries _very hard_ not to think about what that means.)

* * *

Dreaming is a strange affair, given the god that slumbers deep inside. When he sleeps his mind and self wander; a spectre cloaked in crimson fire witnesses the nightmares of hundreds, thousands, of bugs. Remembering them all, taking them away, consuming them for kindling and for ease of thought.

(His sister wraps others in her power, makes it hard for them to wake. The burn of fear and phantom pain rouses dreamers from their sleep and makes them glad for reality.)

This dream is -- different.

The Nightmare King is not _gone_. The Heart still beats, strong as it ever was. But there is a noticeable absence where there is usually presence; it seems the god has seen fit to wander, as he is prone to do at times. He gets restless within the span of such endless nights; he departs silently to fulfill his purpose and leaves his vessel in dreamless sleep.

No, his seeming absence is not a worry, but the fact that Grimm is lucid is...puzzling. He can’t quite work out why that would be the case.

It almost feels like he was left alone - as alone as he _can_ be - on purpose, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about _that._

So he is content to hang there, just as still as he is in reality, until he senses the familiar presence of someone else.

He unfolds himself with a sigh, and goes to investigate.

He could say that he doesn’t know what he expects to find. But, in truth, he already understands the purpose of this dream, and who he will meet.

He doesn’t have to walk far.

Music fills the air with every step, with every breath, a melody from his memories. The first song his musician ever played for him, so long ago when they first met.

Every flaw and imperfection is preserved; those straining notes, clumsy and muddled, simply make it more beautiful to him and more unique. He has always treasured such things, as odd as it might seem- but he values uniqueness and choice, and this was a gift given to him without asking, so why should he not remember it as it was?

He would be an unworthy recipient if he simply brushed away its flaws.

Brumm seems embarrassed, hearing it. _I’ve played better for you, Master,_ he says. _I’ve improved it since then._

The Troupe Master simply smiles and dismisses it with a wave of his hand, eyes crinkling in clear amusement; _Well, my friend, I like it. Surely that must count for something,_ and his musician has no answer for that.

 _Not that I don’t like the way you play now, of course,_ Grimm corrects himself, and his hand reaches out and- pauses. He tilts his head, leaves his fingers outstretched, and waits for permission and leaves Brumm briefly confused, because-

It’s not something that needs asking.

The musician is used to his master’s freely given physical contact. Brief touches, nothing too intimate; encouraging or briefly comforting or theatrical. Hovering to determine whether Brumm feels ready to accept it, pulling away if he does not. It is an understanding they determined early on, the limits of that physical contact; his master has always been careful with him, knowing he desires a great deal of space.

It’s not something that needs asking, except when it is,

so this is something different from that.

The dream makes him bold, for once. He nods, slightly, in answer; trusting himself to speak, even here, is too much.

His master’s fingers press gently under his chin and lift it so their eyes meet, and the feeling makes him shudder, briefly. (It’s an almost frustrating thing, to know that even that small tremor has inevitably been noticed, to know that apparently nothing he does will surprise the bug in front of him.)

He can tell the reaction amuses Grimm, of course, but everything is amusing to his master, sooner or later.

Little gestures and smiles and things he can easily read into are all...acceptable. He knows Grimm well, he thinks, at least as well as Divine does, enough to make a guess at what his true feelings are, enough to at least assume that this is something more.

Assumptions and guesses and not really knowing, not having things being confirmed; perhaps he’d content himself with that, in the waking world.

Here and now, it’s just not enough.

He pushes aside his mask and pulls Grimm closer and it’s satisfying to see that sudden shock on his master’s face, something that he didn’t expect. The kiss is impulsive and rough and edged with frustration and it’s not what he imagined (the few times he’d even allowed himself to imagine), it’s not what he expected -

-Grimm simply leans into it, eyes half-closed, and kisses him back; there is no laughter or expectant smile or any motion that suggests it was planned for or thought of, just soft acceptance (and somehow that makes his heart race more). That raised hand lowering to Brumm’s shoulder and gripping tight.

It doesn’t stop for a while.

When it does, neither of them are in much of a state to stand. Sitting has happened without either of them particularly realising it.

 _You could have said,_ the musician says, and Grimm shakes his head because _you would not deny me anything, if I asked._

Brumm can’t deny the truth of the statement. The topic changes.

_What if I hadn’t said anything?_

_Then that is how it would be._

He has nothing to say to that;

that quiet acceptance, _this is how it is, that is how it would be,_ that longing that had called him

adds up to something he doesn’t like.

Instead, he reaches out and gently turns Grimm’s head for another kiss; his master closes his eyes and leans into it once again, saying nothing, expressing nothing except a quiet relief that hurts in a way he can’t quite explain.

It’s not at all like how he imagined, but it’s more than fine.

He doesn’t ask anything else.

* * *

(Dreams are where the subconscious becomes conscious, where feelings hidden are so much harder to deny.

In distance he could cross with a thought, lighting some dark and unbearable dream, the Nightmare King closes his eyes and smiles.)

**Author's Note:**

> Brought to you by I Can't Fucking Sleep It's Really Hot Here Because Summer Is A Curse.
> 
> I thought this would be cute and not fucking sad, like an idiot, but nope, here it is. 
> 
> BUT HEY
> 
> THEY KISSED....


End file.
